“Why,” muttered Trent as if to himself, gazing on the ground, “did he conceal it—from Mrs. Manderson?” He looked up at Marlowe. “And from Martin,” the other amended coolly. “He was told the same thing.” With a sudden movement of his head Trent seemed to dismiss the subject. He drew from his breast-pocket a letter-case, and thence extracted two small leaves of clean, fresh paper. “Just look at these two slips, Mr. Marlowe,” he said. “Did you ever see them before? Have you any idea where they come from?” he added as Marlowe took one in each hand and examined them curiously. “They seem to have been cut with a knife or scissors from a small diary for this year from the October pages,” Marlowe observed, looking them over on both sides. “I see no writing of any kind on them. Nobody here has any such diary so far as I know. What about them?” “There may be nothing in it,” Trent said dubiously. “Any one in the house, of course, might have such a diary without your having seen it. But I didn’t much expect you would be able to identify the leaves—in fact, I should have been surprised if you had.” He stopped speaking as Mrs. Manderson came towards them. “My uncle thinks we should be going now,” she said. “I think I will walk on with Mr. Bunner,” Mr. Cupples said as he joined them. “There are certain business matters that must be disposed of as soon as possible. Will you come on with these two gentlemen, Mabel? We will wait for you before we reach the place.” Trent turned to her. “Mrs. Manderson will excuse me, I hope,” he said. “I really came up this morning in order to look about me here for some indications I thought I might possibly find. I had not thought of attending the—the court just yet.” She looked at him with eyes of perfect candour. “Of course, Mr. Trent. Please do exactly as you wish. We are all relying upon you. If you will wait a few moments, Mr. Marlowe, I shall be ready.” She entered the house. Her uncle and the American had already strolled towards the gate. Trent looked into the eyes of his companion. “That is a wonderful woman,” he said in a lowered voice. “You say so without knowing her,” replied Marlowe in a similar tone. “She is more than that.” Trent said nothing to this. He stared out over the fields towards the sea. In the silence a noise of hobnailed haste rose on the still air. A little distance down the road a boy appeared trotting towards them from the direction of the hotel. In his hand was the orange envelope, unmistakable afar off, of a telegram. Trent watched him with an indifferent eye as he met and passed the two others. Then he turned to Marlowe. “A propos of nothing in particular,” he said, “were you at Oxford?” “Yes,” said the young man. “Why do you ask?” “I just wondered if I was right in my guess. It’s one of the things you can very often tell about a man, isn’t it?”